


Episode 3 - Winter Has Come

by mskc



Series: Alternate Season 8 [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet, Character Death, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, battle of winterfell goes differently, everyone and their arcs get respect bc the show couldnt give it to them, i'm doing this to cope y'all, like wtf d&d, non-character assassination, y'all had two years and you still fucked it up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mskc/pseuds/mskc
Summary: Jaime clutches his brother’s upper arms, squeezing tight. He reaches behind him and pulls out an obsidian dagger. Dragonglass.“You know what to do,” Jaime states.Tyrion takes it in his hand, and Jaime rises to his feet, exiting out the door without another word or glance. There was no time for any second guessing now.The dead have arrived.________________________________The Battle of Winterfell goes far differently. The Dead are much more than they thought. A familiar face turns up earlier than expected. The Night King has a power that no one could have imagined. Arya discovers the truth too late. A secret from the old world lies hidden in the crypts.the first in a collection of rewritten "episodes" of the final season. because they all deserved better. so buckle in folks, here's to setting right what went horribly wrong.





	1. respite

**Author's Note:**

> well, here we are. are y'all scarred bc of that finale, bc i sure am.
> 
> i know some of you were expecting an update on my other fic, my speculative "finale." i knew it wouldn't be true. i knew weeks ago how this show would end, how all my favorite characters' stories would be dragged through the mud for the sake of "shock value." i thought i would be ready to see the mother of dragons be turned into a madwoman on the flip of a dime. i wasn't
> 
> so, this fic was born. like i said, this will be the first in a series of "episode" rewrites, starting with episode 3 bc i actually really liked the first two episodes, especially "a knight of the seven kingdoms." and honestly, i also enjoyed "the long night" despite its problems, and i actually liked that arya killed the night king, but i felt like the show didn't know what to do with itself after its biggest problem got solved so quick. everything just fell apart after this ep, so that's why i'm starting the rewrite.
> 
> i want to preface by saying that i still love all the characters in this show, despite what the showrunners did to them. i still love jon, dany, arya, jaime, tyrion, sansa, all of them. and this is a love letter to them
> 
> also don't worry, i have a nearly completed outline for my entire "season" (which is so weird bc i almost NEVER do outlines) so this story will have a definitive end in the near future. for "broken," i'm not sure i can say the same, sorry to those readers.
> 
> anyway, hope y'all enjoy!

A dark figure descends from the clouds atop his frozen beast. His beast groans and growls below him. This was a powerful being, far different from the mindless creatures that made up his army. It was born into the new world with the power and the might of the old. His resurrection wiped its soul from the flesh, but some memory must still linger; its noises sound almost melancholy.

 

It matters not. This beast is under his command, as all beings shall be. It will not falter from his control, this he knows. Still, death has weakened the potent magic and fire within him. Any more scrapes and cuts, and this beast will be of little use to him. One undead, even a dragon, could never match the power of one living.

 

His army is already in place, his generals await his order. This is the beginning of the end, the end he has sought to bring unto the world for eons upon eons. He has lived through countless eras of man and creature, he has outlasted the rise and fall of civilizations, and this one shall fall at his behest. He witnessed the age of the greatest heroes the world had ever known, but even heroes wither and fall.

 

Was he a hero once? Long ago, before the cold dark consumed him? Was he brave and noble, just and fair? Did he protect the innocent? Defend the weak? Did he courageously face the horrors of the world?

 

It matters not. Heroes are not eternal, not like him. Their stories are told, but all stories fade with time. But time cannot touch him. He is this world’s horror now. And soon, there will be no need for stories or fairy tales. Soon there will be nothing at all. Nothing but the night and the frost.

 

Will he be satisfied then? Will the void inside him be filled by a void in the world? Will it finally be enough to repay thousands of years of icy torment, living not alive, dying but never dead?

 

It matters not. The only thing that matters is his mission be complete, his destiny fulfilled. He was made with the magic of the old world to be the bringer of death, the destroyer of man. Why should he be anything other than the monster they turned him into?

 

He spots dim lights in the darkness, and he grins. The light of humanity. So peaceful, so warm. A light that unites all men. A light he will gladly snuff out.

 

He ascends back into the clouds. Not quite yet will the battle begin. But soon. Soon. How many will die? How long will it take for his purpose, his vision to be realized?

 

Well, he has all the time in the world. It matters not.

 

* * *

 

 _Before the sun comes up_ , Tormund had said. Before the sun comes up, the victor of the struggle between Life and Death will be decided. In mere hours, they’ll be facing the Night King and the dead, and as the winds grow stronger and the night grows darker, Jon begins to think might never feel the warmth of the Northern sun on his face again.

 

He’d told them all he can in their last meeting, with Bran filling in the gaps in with his...abilities. The Night King, his undead army, what they can do. What can kill them, what can’t. The simple metal weapons and swords they had stored would be of little use now. Only Valyrian steel and dragonglass can send the dead back to the dirt. If not for Daenerys allowing them to mine the dragonglass beneath Dragonstone, they surely would have been fucked. If not for Daenerys seeing and realizing the evil that haunted his nightmares ever since Hardhome, they would have no chance whatsoever to survive what’s about to come. If not for Daenerys… Daenerys…

 

Jon had never imagined he would feel this way toward the revered and feared Mother of Dragons before they met. When he first laid eyes upon her, he’d been stricken by her youth, and even more by her ethereal beauty. Silver hair that glimmered in the moonlight, violet eyes that shone with a blazing fire, a mind and tongue as sharp as a blade. Of course he had felt an attraction; only a blind man wouldn’t. But he had never dreamed he would feel something like this again in this life. Something like what he had with Ygritte, except more. So much more. He loved Ygritte, more than he thought possible, but he could never give himself to her fully. He had a duty to the Watch. They were never meant for each other.

 

But with Daenerys...with Dany, he feels free. He feels like he has met his match, too perfect it could have only been made by the gods. He could look into her eyes and forget all the horror, all the death around him, if only for a moment. When he looks at her, he isn’t lost anymore. He is home. For a moment, when they laid together in bed on that boat after a night of passion, a part of him entertained the terrible idea of running. Running away from the North, the dead, the Throne, all of it, with her at his side. They could go east, get warm. He would finally see a little more of that world everyone else is clamoring on about. He could be happy. They could be happy. Together.

 

No, he can’t think like this now. He has people who are relying on him, counting on him to lead them through the Great War. He has a duty to them. The dead are fast approaching. He cannot lose sight of that, not now, not when it counts most.

 

Maester Aemon had warned him so many years ago, _“Love is the_ _death_ _of_ _duty_ _.”_ But when he’s with Dany, he almost feels like he could let duty die. Let it rot in the ground, so they could be together. Perhaps this moment, the revelation of his life, the truth about his mother and father, is his punishment for letting something other than duty enrapture his mind.

 

Sam kept telling him those not so subtle remarks, asking him by not asking, and giving him that look all day, as if he wanted to say with his eyes what he could not say aloud, _when?_ In truth, if he had it his way, he would never tell. He would be content with leaving the past in the past, letting the biggest secret of Robert’s Rebellion remain with the dead. But since when have things ever gone his way?

 

He doesn’t know why Bran and Sam know this. He doesn’t know how they could possibly know the truth before he ever could. Most of all, he doesn’t know _why_ _now?_ Why tell him his entire life was a lie right as he faces death itself, as well as the deaths of millions of people? Why tell him he shares blood with the woman he loves, the woman he wants to spend the end of his days with? Why take all that he thought he knew and drive it into the dirt? _Why_ _?_

 

He wonders why he’s even here, staring at the cold statue of his dead aunt Lyanna– No. Not his aunt. His mother. Lyanna Stark, the fabled She-Wolf of Winterfell. His true mother, who loved her child so much she begged her brother with her dying breath to protect him with his life, to keep the knowledge of her love with the enemy prince a secret to the world, to take that secret to the grave. For years, he had wondered about his mother. He thought knowing the truth would give him some rest, some closure. He thought knowing that his mother cared for him, that she loved him with all her being, would make him happy. Now, he wishes more than anything that his parents were anyone else, anyone in the world, other than Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell and Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. But brooding in front of his mother’s grave won’t change that.

 

A light echoing patter of footsteps coming towards him. He doesn’t need to lift his head to know who it is. _Dany_. She’ll want to talk before the battle begins and the seven hells rain down on them. He’s been avoiding her, and she knows that he’s been avoiding her. But even when he walks away, for a split second he can see the look of hurt in her eyes, and that hurts more than he’d like to admit; like another knife to his heart.

 

She stops a few feet away from him, respecting his distance but silently asking to let her in.

 

“Your brother told me you’d be down here,” she says apprehensively. Of course he fucking did. “I didn’t even have to ask him.”

 

“Yeah, well. That’s Bran,” he grumbles, a bit annoyed that his privacy was no longer sacred. Her brows crook upward in that adorable way she does when no one’s looking and she laughs. She smiles gently at him, almost shy, and he can’t help but muster a smile back.

 

He thinks he would do almost anything for her.

 

She walks toward him, and after a moment, slowly folds her arms around him. Without a thought, his arms seek out hers of their own volition. He’d thought it would repulse him, the thought he had lain with his own kin, but his body, his soul, was entwined with hers in a way he did not completely understand. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t told her he loved her yet. He’d wanted that dream, of love, of happiness, to last as long as it could. He’d feared that uttering those three little words would cut it short. But it seems, with the march of the dead and the unraveling of secrets, that dream is ending.

 

“Who’s this?” she asks quietly. It’s almost funny; she can’t recognize the woman whose love marked the downfall of her house.

 

“Lyanna Stark,” he answers, waiting for her response. He doesn’t have to look at her face to see the emotions running through it; he finds himself doing that a lot nowadays. It’s a long, pregnant pause before she replies.

 

“My brother Rhaegar,” she says, wistful for a past she never knew. “Everyone told me he was decent and kind. He liked to sing. Gave money to poor children…And he raped her.”

 

She’s incredulous, indignant, at the actions of a ghost. Sometimes he thinks it’s unfair, how ghosts are freed from their mistakes with death, while the living have to pay the consequences.

 

He could let it end here. Let her go on believing the biggest lie in all of Westeros, the lie he had believed all his life. He could go on, living as the bastard son of Ned Stark, for as little life as he had left anyway. He could die as Jon Snow, the White Wolf, not Aegon Targaryen, Heir to the Seven Kingdoms. But would he be able to rest?

 

It wasn’t his way. He was free from Robert Baratheon now. Jon knew, in his heart, that she had to know the truth. Even if she hates him for it.

 

“He didn’t,” he whispers. A tiny voice in his head tells him to stop, but he continues anyway. “He loved her.”

 

She looks at him, confusion in her expressive eyes. There’s no going back now. He turns around, looking into her eyes, making sure she’s looking in his. He can’t run away from this, no matter how much he wants to. He clutches her hands in his, fearing this will be the last she’ll ever share her warmth with him. He wants to hold onto that fire, just a little bit longer…

 

“They were married in secret. After Rhaegar fell on the Trident, she had a son. Robert would have murdered the baby if he found out, and Lyanna knew it. So the last thing she did, as she bled to death on her birthing bed, was give the boy to her brother Ned Stark, to raise as his bastard.”

 

As the realization washes over her, he sees that cold impassive look fall upon her face, but her eyes, her brilliant beautiful eyes, betray her true feelings. He sees confusion and anger, but in her eyes he sees pleading, hoping for this to be some kind of cruel joke.

 

“My name…” He hesitates.

 

Her facade falters at the end, and all he sees is anguish. Her head shifts ever so slightly, asking for it not to be true, _please_ don’t let it be true. She doesn’t know how many times he’s asked the same thing. She’s begging him to stop with her glassy eyes, her quickening breath, her quivering lips.

 

He thinks he would do almost anything for her.

 

Almost.

 

“My _real_ name…is Aegon Targaryen.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion has only been this drunk two other times in his life.

 

The first is on his eighteenth nameday, when his father gave him a bag of gold and then promptly told him to leave his sight. That bag bought him five bottles of Dornish red and a _real_ _good_ time with some lovely twins named Yrma and...well he can’t actually recall the other one’s name, only the way her lips left streaks on his skin. He’s pretty sure he’d given them twenty gold each and they’d stolen the rest. Or at least that’s what he assumed when he woke up the next day in an alley, sans his shoes and smallclothes.

 

The second was after he’d killed Shae in self defense and murdered his father in cold blood, on his way to Essos in a box. He probably couldn’t have made that journey if he _wasn’t_ drunk.

 

And so, on this day, which is more than very likely going to be his last day, Tyrion drinks. He drinks like a fish trying to drown itself. He drinks so much it actually startles some of the local Northern drunkards. Well, if he’s going to die tomorrow, might as well drink enough to send himself to the Stranger.

 

And after that fun little circle of misfits in front of the fire, he decides it’s time to drink some more. Somehow, he makes his way to down to the cellar of Winterfell, disconnected from the Crypts. He’d heard of a divine Arbor red vintage, just sitting there collecting dust. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.

 

He stumbles down the steps into the cellar, missing a step or two on the way, but he manages. It’s a rather small cellar, only about four shelves and all half empty. It’s at least smaller in comparison to the grand collections in the Red Keep and _especially_ in Casterly Rock. There’s rats crawling on the floors and shelves, spreading dust and dirt everywhere. Cobwebs line every wall. It’s clear that a bottle hasn’t been opened in celebration in quite a long time. Not surprising; the Starks haven’t exactly had the most joyous time in the last few years.

 

Nevermind that. He can’t let guilt sober him up. The Arbor awaits him.

 

He walks through the shelves, searching and scouring for that delicious red. There’s no light in here, making the task a lot more difficult. It doesn’t help that his eyes are blurry from the excess of alcohol. Tyrion thinks he saw a shadow move in the darkness. But that doesn’t make sense. There aren't any shadows in the dark. So he moves on, looking for that bottle of Arbor red.

 

He gets to the last shelf, and still no sign of that bottle. Maybe it’s hidden on one of the tops of the shelves. Yes, that must be it. He’s pretty sure he saw a ladder on the side of the stairs. Perfect. He’ll have enough time to have a taste and make it to the Crypts with the other useless folk. He might even bring the bottle to pass along to the others, if he holds his impulses in check. He spins to get that ladder, but runs right into a wall, knocking him to his arse. That’s funny. He doesn’t recall a wall being there. A wall that feels very _human_ -like. He looks up, and sees a familiar face, toothy grin visible even in the dark.

 

“Hello, old friend.”

 

He must _really_ be drunk.


	2. reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: i decided to split the first chapter into two, bc it seemed a bit much to absorb in just one chapter. i'm hella fickle if y'all couldn't tell.

Sansa oversees the women and children going into the crypts personally. She refuses to go in until every single person is accounted for and taken into refuge. That is the duty of a Lady of Winterfell, after all.

 

As she guides a woman and her young son through the door to the crypts, she hears the boy ask, “Mummy, are there going to be monsters down there?”

 

“No, sweetling,” the woman assures, patting his head. “We’ll be safe down here. Right, milady?”

 

The woman looks at her, asking for reassurance seemingly for her son, but really for the both of them. There’s so many things that could go wrong. The dead could break through the door, or the ceiling of the crypts could collapse, or everyone could die outside and they’d be stuck in there to starve to death.

 

Sansa smiles, bending down face to face with the boy.  “What’s your name?” she asks him.

 

He can’t more than six years old. Too young, far too young. And that shaggy brown hair on his head, caked with mud and soot, makes her think of Rickon, her lost baby brother. He never even had a chance, and this little boy’s chances aren’t any better.

 

He looks up at his mother, unsure if he should answer. His mother nods, and he replies, “Haeden.”

 

“Haeden,” she repeats. “Don’t worry. Everyone down in the crypts will be safe and sound. I promise.”

 

He beams at her, missing a front tooth.  It’s nearly impossible for everything to go according to plan. Something is bound to go wrong, no matter what any of them do. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to change that. The only thing she can do is give this little boy one last glimmer of hope. Children don’t deserve to die hopeless, this she knows.

 

Haeden and his mother make their way into the crypts, and Sansa prays to the gods she stopped believing in long ago that they’ll see the light of day once again.

 

“That was very kind of you,” a lilting voice says from behind her. Sansa turns around and sees the young foreign woman known as the personal handmaiden to the Dragon Queen, hands always folded politely.

 

“Will you be joining us in the crypts, Lady Stark?”

 

Sansa stands, facing the handmaiden. “I will, but I want to make sure every woman and child gets inside first. I don't want to leave anyone behind.”

 

The handmaiden tilts her head and smiles. “You must care very much for the people of the North.”

 

Sansa stands a bit straighter, jaw a little tighter, the putting on the visage of the Lady of Winterfell. “I care for them as my mother and father would. It is my duty.”

 

As she looks into the entrance to the crypts, her body sags and releases with a sigh. Duty can take a toll on you.

 

“And that boy…” she continues. “He’s only a child. He didn’t need the truth right now. He just needed someone to tell him everything’s going to be alright. He doesn’t need the end of the known world on his conscious.”

 

The handmaiden steps forward. “I would have liked to have someone like you around when I was a child.”

 

Sansa looks in the distance and gives a sad smile. “Me too.”

 

There’s a pause, a moment of solidarity, between the two vastly different women from opposite ends of the world.

 

“I’m sorry, I never asked for your name,” Sansa inquires.

 

“I am Missandei, my lady.”

 

“You speak the Common Tongue exceptionally well for a foreigner, Missandei.” Sansa smiles at her, saccharine sweet.

 

“I know how to speak nineteen languages, my lady,” she states, some bite to her words. “When I was a slave, one of my first masters allowed me to learn to read and write, so I learned many languages, including the Common Tongue, and I became a translator.”

 

“That was quite nice of him,” Sansa says.

 

Missandei pauses. “Yes,” she responds warily. “Quite nice. For a slave master.”

 

Sansa looks down, wincing at her utter lack of tact. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to imply that you had an easy life. You were a slave. No person should ever have to endure that.”

 

“You meant no offense,” Missandei says, still uneasy.

 

“It must have horrible,” Sansa empathizes, “being ripped away from your home and family so young.”

 

“I believe we have that in common, my lady. I’d heard from your brother that you’d only just recently retaken your home from another house.”

 

Sansa glances to the side, terrible memories suddenly rushing back. “Yes, we seem to have many unfortunate things in common.”

 

Missandei unfolds her hands and lets her shoulders fall, opening herself up to a new acquaintance. Sansa supposes she hasn't found many in the North.

 

"Of course, I was never a slave, but I can’t count how many times I felt like my life was always in someone else’s hands, never my own.”

 

Missandei looks off in the distance, as though she were reliving her own past, no doubt fraught with immeasurable pain.

 

“I felt that way for a long time too," she echoes. "It’s not until just recently that I finally feel like I have some power back. I finally have a choice now.”

 

Sansa smiles, genuine, and the translator smiles back at her. She is quite lovely, an exotic beauty. Warmth radiates off her like the summer sun. The gray and dreariness of the North doesn’t suit her at all.

 

“I feel like we would have been quite good friends, Missandei,” Sansa says, sincerely. “If not for the Dragon Queen.”

 

With that, Missandei’s smile falls, turning into a flower. Her face turns cold as winter, and behind her eyes blazes a tranquil fury.

 

“Yes,” Missandei tepidly agrees. “Without the Dragon Queen, there would be no problem at all. We’d all be dead already.”

 

Missandei brusquely strides past Sansa and into the safety of the crypts, leaving the Lady of Winterfell in befuddled in the snow. Her opinion on the Dragon Queen hasn’t wavered, no matter how many different stories she hears of a hero or savior, the _Breaker of Chains_. Though she may have been blunt, Sansa has done nothing but stand by her beliefs. But even so, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s done something wrong.

 

* * *

 

 _Samwell Tarly, Slayer of White Walkers._ He wonders if that’s how history will remember him. How Gilly and Little Sam will remember him. He wonders if there will be _anyone_ to remember him after this night. He wonders so deeply that he doesn’t quite know where in Winterfell he is.

 

He was supposed to be heading to the armory, to be given a dragonsteel weapon now that he’d just turned over the ancestral sword of his house. It was never meant for him anyway. It was meant to be in a warrior’s hands, and Samwell Tarly was by no means a warrior. But as the end of humanity draws near, a warrior he must become, if only for this night. After that, who knows. Maybe the maesters might forgive him for running off and stealing books from the Citadel. Or maybe they’ll just banish him to the Wall and he’ll be in the exact place he started. A cold, sniveling southern boy with no prospects. Marvelous.

 

Sam knows in theory where the armory should be, past the entrance to the great hall and through the courtyard, Jon told him. But now he’s wandering around the halls on the _second floor_ , walking past people and making sure he looks like he knows what he’s doing when he’s clearly lost, _how could he_ _get lost_ _after_ _Jon told him_ _exactly_ _where to go?_

 

As he’s walking past an open door, he sees Bran Stark sitting by the fireplace, looking into the flames but not looking at them at all. Sam stops, and begins looking into the fire himself, mesmerized by the way it seems to move of its own accord. The flames crackle and dance, like it were telling a story in moving picture, a story of what has been, and what’s to come.

 

“If you’re still looking for the armory,” Bran says abruptly, eyes never leaving the fire, “head down the stairs at the end of the hall, through the door to your right and into the courtyard.”

 

Sam laughs nervously. “How did you–”

 

Bran looks up at him, a glint of bemusement in his dark stoic eyes.

 

“Ah right, yes. The uh–the ‘raven’ thing,” Sam stammers. “Shouldn’t you be heading to the Godswood?”

 

“I told Theon to wait a bit longer. Sit and have a good meal. It could be the last chance he gets,” Bran explains ominously.

 

Sam has been weary of the Stark boy ever since he returned from Beyond the Wall. Sam had seen a great deal himself during his time on the Night’s Watch, but whatever horrors he’d witnessed paled in comparison to whatever he saw up there. Whatever he saw, it had stripped away the boy known as Brandon Stark, and left something else in his place. Something Sam was a bit frightened of, to be honest.

 

No one says anything else for a few long moments. Sam feels a bit awkward, squirming from the apprehension. But Bran doesn’t move a muscle, unwavering in his gaze into the fire.

 

“So…” Sam starts, trying to fill in the awkward silence. “It all begins tonight, then?”

 

In that monotone yet patronizing way he speaks now, Bran states, “I suppose so.”

 

 _He supposes? Thought he was supposed to know everything_.

 

“I, uh–” Sam sputters, avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to ask you something else. Though, to be quite honest I’m not even sure if I should even be asking it, or if you even know the answer, or if it even matters if I–”

 

“Speak you mind, Samwell Tarly,” Bran cuts. Right, he was rambling again, wasn’t he? He tends to do that when he’s nervous. Or scared. Or sensing his impending death.

 

Turning to face the young Stark, to look him in his blank eyes, he asks, “Do you know…if we get through this battle? If we can make it to morning? If…we can win?”

 

Bran inhales deeply, then glances away. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

 

Sam thinks for a moment. “No, actually.”

 

He thought he would at least get _something_. He thought an answer would help him, so he asked. Now he decides that he doesn’t want an answer, so he refuses one. His fears should be quelled at least a little. But he’s got nothing, and that makes Sam more terrified than anything else. Scared of the future, for the world, for Gilly, for Little Sam … he starts rambling again.

 

“Aren’t you at all scared? I mean, yeah, he’s coming after all of us, but he’s got his sights set on you personally. Don’t you think you should run, go south, or even leave Westeros? Try and preserve the world’s memory, if that’s what you are?”

 

Bran’s eyes didn’t leave the flames to answer him this time. “It’s not my place to try and change what is to come. I merely observe the passage of time. I do not interfere with it.”

 

Sam means to say something else, but what could he say? He knows nothing of what lies ahead in the darkness. Should he question the boy, who has become as close to the eyes of the gods as one could get? Who seems to know every secret in the world but won’t reveal them? Is he truly their ally in this fight?

 

“Besides,” Bran continues, “it wouldn’t matter where I go. He was always going to come to Winterfell. It’s not just me he’s after.”

 

“I don’t understand. Does he want someone else?”

 

“Not someone. Something.”

 

Sam stands silent, bewildered.

 

“A secret,” Bran says matter-of-factly, like that perfectly sums it up, “From the Old World. A forgotten relic from the Age of Heroes that lies deep within the heart of Winterfell. Not even I know what exactly it is.”

 

Bran finally turns away from the fire and looks into his eyes, half his covered by shadow and the other illuminated by flickering light. He speaks in riddles, metaphors, then expects everyone else to decipher them. Sam’s beginning to get real frustrated by it.

 

“You should go to the armory and get ready,” Bran tells him. “It won’t be much longer now.”

 

Right. The armory. That’s where Sam was heading before getting his mind screwed by none other than Bran Stark, or what’s left of him. Sam makes to leave, turning hastily and practically leaping towards the door, when Bran calls to him one last time.

 

“Know this, Samwell Tarly. After tonight, you will have done everything you can. And that is enough.”

 

Sam turns his head to the broken Stark, and Bran smiles, mouth closed. Sam thinks he means to be friendly and reassuring, but the smile is more a mask than a true smile, like he were playing at human emotion; it didn’t reach his eyes. It mostly just leaves him unsettled. Sam doesn’t know if his words should be a comfort to him or not. He nods his head and leaves, going down the steps at the end of the hall, through the door to his right, and into the courtyard.

 

Bran’s words echo in his head. Is it truly enough, what he’s about to do tonight? If so, why doesn’t tonight feel like the end? Why does he feel like it’s only the beginning?

 

Enough pondering. He needed a weapon. Now which direction did he say the armory was again?

 

* * *

  

“Oh, we're friends, are we?” Tyrion sneers. “Is that why you’re holding a crossbow to my head?”

 

Bronn shrugs. “Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”

 

Tyrion looks down, remembering his father. That's odd. He didn't feel this much shame when he watched the bolt enter his father's body.

 

“Besides, your beloved sister’s promised me–”

 

“No wait, don’t tell me," Tyrion interrupts. "Was it gold?”

 

Bronn chuckles. “That and more. A castle, a title, a wife, and all the fucking gold I want. And that’s a lot more than you and your cunt of a brother could ever give me.”

 

Tyrion hiccups, vision blurry. He’s already deduced this isn’t one of his drunken dreams, since the end of the bolt to his forehead feels very much real. That’ll sober a man up real quick.

 

“You really think Cersei’s going to keep her promise? You trust her that much?” he asks mockingly.

 

“You did,” Bronn counters. Tyrion’s got no answer for that.

 

“I know you Lannisters enough to know never to trust one of you too much. You see, I was supposed to wait out the battle against the dead, then look through the rubble for your remains. But I’m not stupid like you, or crazy like Cersei.”

 

Bronn circles around him. “I’m gonna take both your heads before the ice monsters can. Then I’m gonna bring ‘em to Cersei, take as much gold as she can give me, then hop a boat to Essos and never look back.”

 

Tyrion turns back at him, both frustrated and perplexed. “You’re just going to kill me and Jaime and then run away?”

 

“Looking out for myself, remember? It’s what I do.”

 

“You don’t have to do this, Bronn. You could help us, Daenerys would pay you handsomely for your allegiance. Even more than what’s Cersei’s given you.”

 

“Enough with the bullshit, Tyrion.” Bronn circles back to face him again. “I’m tired of being a fucking errandboy to royalty. I’ll be sitting on a sunny little beach with a couple of Braavosi whores at my side, away from all the fucking politics. In the end, it doesn’t matter who sits on the Throne. You can’t fight Death.”

 

Bronn raises the crossbow. “I’ll make this as quick as possible. Consider this a gift. It’ll be a lot better than being torn limb from limb by a horde of undead.”

 

He touches the bolt to his forehead, finger on the trigger. Tyrion begins to see a shadow move in the background, stalking closer and closer. Odd, he’d thought all the alcohol had been scared out of him. Except this shadow has eyes, the same color as his own. It moves, long arm-shaped shadows flailing, telling him to keep going, keep doing what he does best: talking.

 

“You should know, as your friend, I’ll be inclined to haunt you after you kill me. And I will be a pest, I promise you,” Tyrion rambles.

 

“Well, then it shouldn’t be much different than when you were alive,” Bronn replies. The shadow inches closer behind him.

 

“Once I’m done here, I’ll head on over to your brother to finish him off. That is, if he’s finally done ‘finishing’ that beast of a woman Brienne.”

 

“That’s _Ser_ Brienne to you.”

 

Jaime’s sword points straight at Bronn’s back. “Good to see you again, Bronn.”

 

Bronn turns swiftly, pointing the crossbow towards Jaime. “Likewise, pretty boy. Thanks for saving me the trouble of having to peel you away from _Ser_ Brienne’s ass. Now I’ll just kill the both of you and be on my way.”

 

“It would be much better to die up there, fighting for the people of Westeros, than dying down here in a cold cellar, don’t you think?”

 

“For you?”

 

“No, for you.”

 

“Please, I’m not some fucking hero.”

 

“Come now, Bronn. I thought you’d have grown a heart in our time together.” Jaime brings his golden hand over his heart, feigning sincerity.

 

“Please think about this, Bronn,” Tyrion urges.

 

“In case you forgot, ‘old friend,’” Bronn hisses, “I don’t fight unless there’s something in it for me. And I don’t see the benefit of dying for you lot. So, if you’re all done pestering me, I’d like to kill you both now and get the hell out of here before the dead get here and kill us all. Cersei will have my ass if I go back empty-handed.”

 

“For gods’ sake, Bronn, just forget about Cersei and listen to us!” Tyrion stands to his feet. “She doesn’t give a damn about you or me or anyone else!”

 

Tyrion doesn’t fail to notice the way Jaime’s shoulders fall and eyes darken at the mention of their sister.

 

“The dead won’t just stop at Westeros, you know that,” he continues. “Wherever you run, they will find a way to reach you and the rest of the world. We can end it here, and you can help us.”

 

There’s a pause, a moment where Tyrion thinks that he’s gotten through to Bronn, that he’s more their friend than Cersei’s lackey. His hope has burned him before.

 

“The only way this is ending,” Bronn resigns, “is with a bolt through both of your heads.”

 

Tyrion almost believes him.

 

“You know I can’t let you do that, Bronn,” Jaime tells him, inching closer and closer with his sword.

 

“What are you gonna do, knock me over the head with your golden hand?” Bronn taunts. “You really think I’m gonna lose to a man who can’t even hold his sword straight?”

 

“No,” Jaime replies. “But that’s why I brought him.”

 

Out of the darkness, a boot kicks in the back of Bronn’s leg, sending him to his knees with a yelp of surprise. Jaime knocks the crossbow out of Bronn’s hands, falling to the floor with a clatter and thud. An arm slips around his neck, another holding a blade to his throat. Bronn reaches for his captor, grabbing the arm around his neck.

 

“Well, well.” Bronn chuckles, defeated. “If it isn’t Podrick _fucking_ Payne.”

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Ser Bronn,” Podrick greets.

 

“Nice trick you learned there,” Bronn concedes. “Never thought I’d see the day a fucking _squire_ gets the jump on me.”

 

“Well, I had an excellent teacher,” Podrick says knowingly.

 

Jaime sheaths his sword, then approaches Bronn. He removes the scabbard from his waist, tossing it to the side, and goes through his pockets, searching for the inevitable hidden blade or four. He pulls out five.

 

“Let’s make sure you don’t cause anymore trouble.” Jaime quickly glances around the room. “There.”

 

He points to a large wooden beam in the center of the room, supporting the ceiling from collapses in on them.

 

“Tyrion, grab that rope over there.”

 

Still is a daze of what the hell just happened, Tyrion stands there slack jawed. Rolling his eyes, Jaime tilts and points his head to the side of Tyrion, and he turns and sees a rope hanging on a hook the side of a shelf. He walks over to grab it off the hooks.

 

“Podrick, bring him over here,” Jaime directs, sounding like a true Lord Commander. Like a true knight.

 

Podrick puts down the blade on Bronn’s neck, and puts his arm behind his back, leading him to the wooden post. Tyrion brings the rope over and puts it in Jaime’s awaiting hand. Podrick shoves down on Bronn’s shoulder, and pushes him to the ground. He bring his hands behind him and around the post, holding them by the wrists.

 

“Afraid I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to tying knots.” Jaime hands the rope to Podrick. “Think you can manage?”

 

Podrick looks up at him, emboldened and determined. “Yes, my lord.”

 

He brings the rope around Bronn’s wrists, making sure they’re extra tight. Bronn hisses at the pain. “Watch the fingers!”

 

Tyrion turns to his brother. “How did you know Bronn was here? How did you know where to find me?”

 

“Call it a big brother’s instincts,” Jaime boasts, winking. Tyrion quirks his brow, silently asking _really?_

 

“I saw you fall on your face into the snow on your way here and followed you to make sure you didn’t do something stupid, like you always do when you’re drunk. That’s when I saw Bronn tailing you.”

 

Tyrion is silent, gathering his words. “Thank you.”

 

Jaime pats his head and ruffles his hair, like he used to do when they were younger to pester him. “Of course. You’re my brother.”

 

 _‘Brother.’_ Tyrion’s heart soars. It wasn’t some offhanded remark or a mocking sneer. He genuinely called him his brother, his blood. Before a tear can even form, the ceiling above them shakes, sending dirt and dust falling below.

 

Tyrion can hear distant muffled cries through the stone walls. _“They’re here! To your stations! They’re here!”_

 

 _‘They?’_ No. No no no no no. _They_ were here. The dead. Maybe it was all the alcohol finally kicking in, but Tyrion feels numb, when he should be screaming and shouting in terror. He begins to feel his soul separate from his body, and he moves around, listless.

 

“I have to get to the crypts.” Tyrion explains, an afterthought.

 

He makes for the cellar entrance in a trance, but Jaime holds him back. “There’s no time! Both of you stay here!”

 

“But I–” Tyrion protests.

 

“It’s too late now, Tyrion,” Jaime chides, like an older brother would. “Lock the door after I leave. You’ll be safe here. Make sure you do _not_ leave this room under _any_ circumstance. Understand?”

 

“But–” Tyrion tries to protest again, but Jaime gestures for Podrick to follow him, already on his way up the stairs. The shouts outside grow louder, and more and more panicked.

 

Coming back to himself, Tyrion follows them up the stairs of the cellar, Jaime’s back to him. “I can still help, Jaime! I can’t just sit in here and do nothing!”

 

At the heavy door to the cellar, Jaime turns on his heel, kneeling down to his little brother. “Tyrion, please. Just do this for me.”

 

He can see the resolution in his brother’s eyes, but also the desperation, so vividly green, it reminds Tyrion of the spring he might never see again.

 

“I can’t lose any more family,” Jaime professes. Tyrion might fall to his knees himself. He’s spent the last few years, thinking his brother hated him, that he disowned them, and that his blood had abandoned him. But now his brother, truly the only one in his family he loved, calls him ‘family’ again.He hasn’t felt so little, so helpless, since was a child, crying for his older brother, his savior. Tyrion is speechless, and can’t do anything but nod yes.

 

Jaime clutches his brother’s upper arms, squeezing tight. He reaches behind him and pulls out an obsidian dagger. Dragonglass.

 

“You know what to do,” Jaime states. And he does. Tyrion takes it in his hand, and Jaime rises to his feet, exiting out the door without another word or glance. There was no time for any second guessing now.

 

The dead have arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> so that's all for now! i'll hopefully get the next chapter up by the end of this weekend. with the outline, it'll probably come out a lot faster than normal.
> 
> hope some of y'all aren't confused by that beginning. if it wasn't clear, that was the night king's perspective. i just thought the show severely underused him, and i also wanted to provide some semblance of a "motivation" for his actions. when you really think about it, he's kind of a frankenstein-like character. made into a monster, lashing out at his creators and the world.
> 
> as the story go on, you'll see the things that have been changed and the things that are the same, but i won't say which for ~shock~ reasons. 
> 
> i'll see y'all next time!


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